You Know Where To Find Me
by autumnlouise
Summary: When Sherlock approaches Molly after the fateful phone call, Molly doesn't know how to feel. Written in honor of the first "I love you" anniversary.


" _You say it. Go on. You say it first. Say it. Say it like you mean it."_

" _I love you."_

 _Silence._

" _I_ love _you."_

… _Had he really just said that?_ Twice?

" _Molly, please."_

 _A breath. Eyes closed, tears pricking, burning. Heart pounding._

" _I love you."_

The line went dead right after the words left her lips. All she could hear was the static of her phone, her hitched breathing as she tried not to cry. The echo of the words she never thought she would hear him say.

 _I love you. I… I love you._

Her hands shook as she lowered the phone from her lips and set it on the kitchen counter. She felt so dizzy, overwhelmed from all of it… she vaguely wondered if something like this could send her into shock. How was she supposed to respond to that? More importantly… what _the hell_ even was _that?_

The room was spinning. Her whole world was tilting, changing. Gripping the counter, she looked down at the cup of tea she'd been making before her phone rang– before three minutes had turned her life upside down– and inexplicably started to laugh.

"God," she choked out, finally unable to stop the tears from rolling down her cheeks. "God, you _bastard_ , you can't just say that and then hang up."

Of course there was no response. She debated picking up her phone and calling him back– demanding what he had just done, why he thought he had the right to toy with her like that. He must have been drunk. Or high. Maybe both. Maybe it was some kind of joke… an experiment…

Whatever the reason, it hurt. And the pain that made her whole body quiver, her very soul _throb_ , meant that trying to talk to him again wasn't worth it. She told herself a long time ago that she was over him, that she was happy with just being his friend. But after all these years… it still wasn't true.

No matter what she said, how she acted, she was just an addict, waiting for her next fix. She couldn't stop loving him. And he had just manipulated her into admitting it.

Fighting back a sob, she pushed her phone away and reached for that cup of tea. She wasn't going to go running back to him this time. If he wanted to play games with her, she decided, he would have to come to her himself.

She would force herself to stay away, no matter how much it hurt. Because there was no way she was going to let one phone call change her entire life.

–––––

When the phone rang a few hours later, it took every ounce of her willpower not to go running and see who it was.

"Hello?" her voice was breathless as she answered.

" _Molly? Hey, it's Greg."_

She felt relieved and disappointed all at once. Part of her had hoped it would be _him._ "Oh. Hello, Greg. What's going on?"

" _I don't have much time, I'm on the way to the scene now, but I thought I'd let you know before you heard it from the press."_

"Heard what from the press? Greg, is everything okay?" and she couldn't help the anxiety that bubbled in the pit of her stomach.

" _It is now. But Sherlock's got a sister– a crazy, out-of-her mind bonkers, sister. And she just gave them a hell of a day. They almost died."_

"What? Oh, God." her stomach flipped. A _sister?_ Even worse, a sister that tried to _kill_ him? She didn't know much about his family, but if they were anything like him… she wouldn't put it past them to get tangled in a situation like this. Maybe all of this had something to do with the strange phone call. Greg started talking about the details of the case, but Molly rushed to stop him. If the two were at all linked… she wanted to hear it from Sherlock. She wanted him to come to her about it. "Wait, don't tell me anything else, please. Please."

" _Oh. Sure. Want to hear it from Sherlock, yeah. Probably a better story that way."_

"Yeah… a better story." she didn't know what else to say. The sound of air rushing past Greg's car filled the awkward silence.

" _Just thought I'd tell you before the paparazzi has a field day with it."_

"Thanks, Greg. Look, I have to…" she was quickly feeling awkward. "Go and feed Toby. Um… can I talk to you later?"

" _Sure thing, Molly. I'll call you if there's anything new._ "

The phone clicked off.

Was there something more to Sherlock's call than just an experiment? Was Sherlock hurt? Some of her the anger burning in her blood chilled and turned to anxiety. All the thoughts she'd spent the afternoon pushing back came flooding in– _I love you I love you I love you._ Before she realized what was happening, she was crying again. Once again, a phone call had sent her day spiraling out of control. And once again, Molly was left with a dead line and a whirlwind of thoughts clogging her mind– because Greg hung up before she could say goodbye.

–––––

At one o'clock that morning, it was not her phone that rang, but her doorbell. Rubbing her eyes, Molly rolled out of bed and dragged herself to the door. She knew it was most likely Sherlock. She didn't want to see him, but she opened the door anyways.

"Hello." the greeting was almost cautious. Just his voice sent Molly's heart flying, and in that moment she was _furious_ at him for it. Damn him. Damn him and his phone call and the agony of that _I love you._ Before he could say anything else, she shoved the door back towards his face.

"No, wait, Molly–" his hand shot out and grabbed the edge of the door, stopping it before it could slam shut. He looked exhausted; face pale, bags under his eyes, hair mussed. "Can I come in? Please." and the last note in his voice was desperate.

"Are you just looking for a bolthole?" Molly snapped, blinking away the burning in her eyes. "Just gotten off a case and don't want to make the effort to go home?"

"Molly." Sherlock's voice was strained. "This isn't about me needing a place to stay. It never has been."

Molly's only response was stubborn silence. She didn't want to let him in. She _wouldn't_ let him in...

"Please. I need to talk to you."

He kept saying _please_. He never asked nicely. Something about that made the anger tightening her chest loosen.

"Oh, you're telling me." she said, her voice laced with venom. Nevertheless, she opened the door wider. He looked like a kicked puppy. She could at least hear him out. See if his excuse for all of _that_ was any good.

"You have some nerve." Molly told him, crossing her arms as he stepped over the threshold. Sherlock shut the door gently behind him, even going so far as to take his shoes off at the doormat because he knew she didn't like dirt being tracked in her house. The two of them stood awkwardly in the dark foyer, Molly looking utterly bedraggled and Sherlock himself looking quite a bit shaken.

"I know." he responded, sliding his hands into his pockets. "I thought about calling you again, but that would obviously be slightly…"

"Traumatic?"

"Inappropriate."

Molly sucked in a breath. "Yeah. Well, nice call on that one."

Sherlock shifted from one foot to the other. In the midnight darkness, he looked like a shadow lingering in her doorway. "So… the phone call."

And it was those words that made Molly's heart sink to the floor. Here it was. She could feel it in the heaviness of her bones- he was going to take back everything he said. Tell her it was all some sort of ruse. She was glad she hadn't thought too much about the possibility of any of it being real. "What about it?"

"After everything that happened, did you hear what I said?" he murmured, trying his very best not to meet her eyes. "After I… told you, I said 'Molly, _please_.' I begged you to say it back to me. And, you know… the Woman– Irene Adler– once told me that she would make me beg for mercy twice."

Molly's voice was tight. "Sherlock." If he was just here to talk to her about another woman after everything he'd put her through…

He cleared his throat. His eyes jumped back to hers, holding the gaze. No more beating around the bush– she could see it in the way his posture straightened. He meant business now. "Right. I'm sorry. Perhaps it was inappropriate to explain it in this manner. But the point is, Molly, is that she never did get me to break. I have never felt the need to get on my knees and beg for anything, or any _one_ … except for you."

Molly felt the slightest sliver of hope flutter in her stomach. "What are you saying?"

Sherlock looked strained as he spoke again. But the tone of his words was real; raw and filled with the emotion he was too tired to wall off and hide. "I'm saying that, despite everything I've been through in the past twenty-four hours… I meant what I said on the phone. And I would get on my knees right now to beg you for a chance to explain if that's what it took."

She stared at him unabashedly, with a look of both wonder and confusion. Sherlock Holmes, the all-knowing, insufferable, self-aggrandizing Sherlock Holmes, looking her in the eyes and _begging_ her for forgiveness. He towered almost a foot over her, but in that moment he looked so small, so vulnerable. Was it possible that there was more to the call than just emotional manipulation? Molly was always the one to see right through him, but here, about this… she couldn't get past the fog of exhaustion in his eyes.

She may have been angry with him, but Molly couldn't stand to see him looking so devastated. And Greg had said he'd almost died earlier… she would hate to turn him away in a state like this. So she uncrossed her arms and icily said, "No need for kneeling. Come in and sit down."

He followed her into her sitting room without speaking.

Both of them took a seat on her couch, he in his suit and Belstaff coat and her in her button-up pajamas with kittens on them. They were both quiet for a moment; Sherlock's eyes were closed, his face focused as if he were gathering his thoughts. Cautiously, Molly reached out and touched his arm.

"You said you were going to explain?"

He opened his eyes, shifting slightly and taking her hand in his. Something in her told her not to pull it away.

"Yes," he said. "It starts with this: I have a sister."

And explain he did. He must have talked for at least half an hour, telling her about how Eurus had been so completely erased from his past, and how she had managed to tangle herself into his present. The games she set up to play with him. The lie that she told Sherlock about Molly's house being set with explosives.

All of it was almost too much to handle. Molly had to stop herself from asking questions several times– everything that had happened seemed emotionally distressing and it was probably better to just let him talk it all out. When Sherlock finally reached the end, with rescuing John from the well and stopping Eurus from wreaking even more havoc, Molly could barely keep everything straight.

She didn't know how he was so calm and collected. If all of that had happened to her, she would be a trembling, sobbing mess. But then again, Sherlock Holmes was quite unlike anyone else she'd ever met.

"So…" he finally said, looking over at her expectantly. "What do you think?"

Molly drew in a breath. She could see now why he had needed to call her, to twist her into saying those three little words. But knowing the reasoning behind it didn't take away the pain it had caused her that night– and the frustration and heartbreak he had caused her over the past seven years. She loved him, yes, but she wasn't ready to act like their past had never happened. And she didn't think Sherlock was ready for… for whatever a relationship between them would look like. Not like this– rattled and scared and maybe even traumatized.

An explanation did not have to equal instant forgiveness.

"I think… I think it makes sense. And I think that's a bad way to have a family reunion."

Sherlock cracked the tiniest smile at that. The one he only gave her- lips closed, the slightest tug upwards. Her heart fluttered. "Jokes really aren't your area."

"I know."

The midnight silence was wrapped like a thick blanket around them. Molly took a breath and forced herself to pull it together. "Sherlock… I understand. I do. But I don't think I'm quite ready to forgive you yet. And I'm not ready to… to be what you need." she pulled herself away from him here, taking her hand out of his and moving to the edge of the sofa. If Sherlock was hurt, he was doing a good job hiding it. There was a bit of confusion in the way his brows furrowed, but he nodded, as if understanding.

"I understand. I know I've only caused you hurt time and time again, and I truly do not deserve your friendship. I just wanted to make sure you knew that I… meant what I said. Fully."

"And I appreciate it. Fully." Molly said, and before things could get more awkward, she stood up. The weight of his confessions made her eyes start to water again. She didn't want to cry in front of him, not when he needed support and stability. She could tell in the way he'd been holding her hand that he was craving the safety of her bed. The nights they'd shared– intimate, yet so cold, with as much room as the bed allowed between them– after the Fall, after John's wedding, random times in between, flashed through her mind. He came to her when he needed someone he could trust. Someone to count on.

But she couldn't be that tonight. She needed to be alone after everything that had happened between them today, to try and sort things out. Wrapping her arms around herself, she said, "I… I'm going to bed. But you can have the couch tonight if you'd like."

Sherlock looked up at her and nodded his thanks. "Thank you. For everything."

She got him settled with some blankets and pillows before retiring to her own room. And by the time she woke up the next morning, Sherlock was gone. The only remnant of him was a text on her phone. _I'm here whenever you are ready. I will always be here. –SH_

–––––

Hours went by, turning into days and weeks. She didn't see much of Sherlock for the next two months, aside from some sporadic meetings. 221B Baker Street was rebuilt, Sherlock was back to consulting and detecting, and the world righted itself… mostly. There were post-mortems and lab experiments and a few nights where the ghosts of that day in Sherrinford haunted him more than he liked to admit. On those nights, he would knock on Molly's door and ask for the couch. Despite everything, she always said yes. There were never more than a few words between them. Never any questions from Sherlock on how she felt, what she was thinking.

She was glad he never asked. Because for a very long time… she didn't know how she would respond. She loved him, there was no doubt about it. But she didn't know if she wanted to be with him, if she could forgive him for the agony of that phone call.

The decision was gradual. Some days she would feel set in it, and she would reach for the phone to call him and then pull back at the last moment. Some days she waffled back and forth, changing her mind once an hour if not more. Entire weeks went by where she saw nothing of him. Then there were days where she almost saw too much of him. He brought her coffee from the canteen when he stopped by the hospital and always asked if she was doing okay. This was a new side to Sherlock. She'd never seen him be quite so… human.

And then one day it struck her. She loved Sherlock and he loved her, yes… but he was not the _same_ as her. He wouldn't wait seven years for Molly to come around. And he was hurting– even in their brief, limited encounters, she could see the toll Sherrinford had taken on him. He needed her. He was trying to tell her that all those nights ago– _it's never been about me needing a place to stay._

Oh, God. He needed her, needed her stability and friendship and love, and she needed his love right back, and _why had she taken so long to realize this?_ If she didn't act soon, she was going to lose him for good. Of course there were things in their past that they needed to overcome… but the best way to do that was together. Sherlock was more than the mistakes he'd made. She could not choose which parts of him to love. But, conveniently for her… she had fallen head over heels for _all_ of him several years ago.

With shaking hands, she picked up her phone and typed, _I think I'm ready to talk._ _About us._

Sherlock's reply was almost instant. She had barely set down the mobile before it vibrated and beeped, still the same alert from the day of the call. _You know where to find me. –SH_

She left her house immediately and got to Baker Street as fast as she could. And when she walked into 221B and saw Sherlock Holmes sitting in that armchair, waiting for her with two cups of tea, she couldn't help but look at him and smile.


End file.
